


Buenas Noches

by elficoprincipe



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: I've never written multi-chapter before, M/M, please bear with
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-28
Updated: 2016-07-28
Packaged: 2018-07-27 09:04:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7612015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elficoprincipe/pseuds/elficoprincipe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack's still hearing voices even after the fall of the Swiss headquarters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Home Again, Home Again

The clink of glassware behind the counter. The stale burn of old cigarette smoke hanging in the air. Too many bodies all crowded in together, keeping him from finding release from hot, humid air. As it stands, if one more person so much as brushes up against him he's likely to combust. His visor supplies an overload of tactical information about every one of them in there; knowing the weakest points of every civilian in the room is doing nothing to settle his nerves.

He halfheartedly chastises himself for answering this ridiculous call. As if he thinks he ever had any other choice.

It's a brusque rush of déjà vu, being back in Gibraltar. He knows why Winston chose this base for the recall – not only is it the most defensible and well-supplied of the remaining Watchpoints, but he knew that he'd have a hell of a time getting any of the other old ghosts of Overwatch to return anywhere near Switzerland. The new kids don't know the history beyond what the rose-tinted lenses of their textbooks tell them.

And good for them. The less they know of what a powder keg Overwatch became before the end, the better. They'll be better operatives for it.

_The less they know, the better._

He presses firm fingers to his temples. He doesn't need to listen to that voice anymore, he reminds himself. He's not really Jack anymore. Jack Morrison was at the beck and call of the world's leaders and had to be buried for his trouble.

He's Soldier: 76, a nameless machine to do what has to be done. And as far as the rest of this new Overwatch is concerned, that's all he ever has been.

He hears his comm blip and as a soft, feminine voice rings in his ears, all of his muscles go tense.

“76? Winston's asking to have a word. I'd get back to base, _macht schnell_.”

His shoulders relax. Ziegler. The woman he's keenly staying a step away from at all times. If anyone could put the pieces together, it's her. The others, save maybe Reinhardt and Torbjorn, all died a long time ago. At least Jack has company, in that regard. He almost laughs at the thought.

He grunts out an affirmation and goes to face the fire.

 

* * *

 

He enters the makeshift meeting room and casts his gaze over the area. Two other agents are seated beside Winston – one he knows, McCree, picking idly at his fingernails, and the other foreign. Shorter than average but well-built, long graying hair tied back with gold, imposing bow strapped to his back. He makes a mental note to learn more about him later.

“Thank you for seeing me, Soldier.” It's clear Winston is hiding his enthusiasm poorly for having a new team under his wing. He's practically electric with it. Jack has to stifle the urge to find it amusing. “Did Mercy fill you in on what you're here for?”

“No.” Short, gruff. It throws cold water on Winston's enthusiasm.

“Well, you see – ah. Technically what we're doing here is highly illegal.” Jack's eye twitches involuntarily. “Under the PETRAS Act, everyone here could be arrested and even court-martialed at any moment, given the right – or _wrong_ – people find out.”

“I'm aware, thanks.” McCree, still staring at his hands, snorts.

“Uh, right. Yes.” The gorilla slides his falling glasses back into place and jabs at the holoscreen between them. “But let me show you what we're dealing with.” The other men come to attention at the blue light filling the craggy room as the screen enlarges with what appears to be security footage.

“Ten days ago, my research was interrupted by an attack. While normally I could handle one assailant with ease -” Winston focuses in on the blurry dark shape of the attacker, “- this one was. Well. Tough. And seemed to be after our information banks more than my life. Though, for the record, that definitely looked like it was also on their mind.”

The agent that he doesn't recognize lifts an eyebrow.

“During the attack, this, this, _whoever_ , almost succeeded in hacking into Athena's databases and extracting all of the known whereabouts of former Overwatch agents. I don't need to tell you all why that would be a _very bad thing_ , right?”

Jack rolls one of his shoulders back. “No. Obviously they want to, at best, keep tabs on everyone affiliated with Overwatch, at worst eliminate them altogether. Starting with you, the one – evidently – capable of initiating a recall.”

McCree points his thumb in his direction. “What that fella said. Bad news.”

Jack yet again stifles a laugh and nods at the screen, which has been playing and replaying the events of the attack. “Do you know anything about them? Affiliations, past history...?”

Winston hides his sheepishness with another adjustment of his glasses. “Well, unfortunately...no. Hooded, wielding dual pistols of no discernible make or origin, and wearing a mask.”

“Mask?”

“Er, yes. Either a skull or, as Mercy says, an _owl_. We can't quite make it out here, and let's say I had a few other things to worry about rather than taking stock of their fashion choices.”

The agent opposite McCree clears his throat. “As much as I appreciate this information, Winston, I still don't quite understand why this isn't an organization-wide debriefing. Should we not all be on alert for this assailant should they strike again?”

“I'm glad you asked, Shimada. I want you three to be a sort of...task force. There's so much going on right now – Talon making its presence more prominent, another Omnic crisis in Russia – we can't spare the manpower right now to make this our top priority. While you all aren't on another mission, this is _your_ priority. Get information, nip this in the bud.”

Soldier releases tension he hadn't been aware he was holding before responding. “...understood.”

The other two grumble something similar each, though Shimada, a name that definitely piques his interest, is looking ready to argue nonetheless. He doesn't blame him.

 

* * *

 

The humidity of the day wanes as the sun sets and Jack takes the opportunity to get away from the hubbub of the newly reformed Watchpoint and instead settle on one of the cliff faces overlooking the ocean. Finally, he feels as though he has a chance to take a breath. Everywhere he turns there's someone there, doing god-knows-what, and it's setting his nerves on edge.

He's being careful to keep his distance for good reason, he tells himself. Keeping himself away from this mess until he's needed on a mission is for the best. He remembers what getting too close did to him, to everyone.

_It's for the best, Commander. Just let us handle this._

He shakes the words violently out of his head.

 


	2. The Heart of It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Such a goddamn hothead, cabrón. Lemme help cool you off, huh?

Even in its disrepair, Watchpoint: Gibraltar is downright _cheery_. Faded, chipped paint and exposed wires and industrial metal, buzzing with activity, and it still feels like home.

Jack is trying desperately not to feel as though he's come home. He doesn't have the right to call any of this home anymore.

He sits in his quarters, stripped down to an undershirt and sweats as he feels his way around cleaning his pulse rifle without the visor. He prefers to do it this way, not only out of a vague sense of accomplishment, because deep down Jack still has his pride, but out of necessity – what if his visor malfunctions during battle, or worse? The last thing he needs on his plate is a case of exploding pulse munitions.

_Always such a pragmatist, Morrison. You are, of course, the best suited for this._

A stinging headache, he thinks. A stinging fucking headache.

He hastily reassembles his rifle and none-too-carefully sets it aside, head in his hands. He presses the heels of them to his eyes, willing the pressure and warmth to calm him down.

 _Such a goddamn hothead,_ cabrón _. Lemme help cool you off, huh?_

Too many voices. Too many goddamn voices in this place. He throws on his uniform and storms out, the late hour be damned.

He meanders his way through hallway after winding hallway, measuring his breath to keep his mind from working. What was the thing his sergeant used to tell him back in his military days, when the pain of his newly-acquired enhancements kept him from sleeping, from eating? _Use your breath, Morrison. If you can make it through these breaths, you can make it through twenty more. Push yourself. Count._

I _am_ pushing myself, he thinks.

Eventually he realizes he's found his way into one of the lower kitchens, the sound of running water turning on then off and the bubble of a coffee maker telling him he's not alone.

“Oh! Sorry, love!” And then, in a stage whisper, “Am I being too noisy down 'ere?”

Of course Tracer was the first agent to return to Overwatch. No one believed quite as hard as she did. Except maybe him, for a time.

“Uh, no. Not too loud. Just...on a walk. Maybe get some water.”

“Light sleeper, eh? Me, I don't need much sleep.” She taps twice on the machinery strapped to her chest. “Since I'm not really in the here-and-now and all.” Tracer punctuates this with a giggle.

Jack loved her. She was always the heart of the team, right next to Winston. Even after the Slipstream accident, she never lost herself.

“Want some coffee, bruv? I don't make it as strong as Reinhardt, but it's still top notch, in my opinion. You look a bit peaky, is all.”

He wants to joke with her, about the bags under his eyes and how pale he's gotten, like they used to. But Tracer is just being friendly, it's what she does. She sees a new face, she makes it her friend. There's no amount of explaining that would help ease the pain and confusion of why Soldier: 76 knows all of Jack and Lena's inside jokes.

If there's ever a time for that conversation, which the soldier sincerely hopes there will not be, it's not 3:27 AM over a pot of slightly over-brewed coffee.

He accepts a mug of it, black, with a nod.

He marches it back to his quarters, sleep be damned, counting every breath in sets of twenty.

 

* * *

 

It comes as no surprise when Ziegler comms him and asks if he could come to the medbay, if it's no trouble. She's a doctor, and she doesn't have a record of any of the new members' condition. It makes sense. It would be alarming to deny such a request. It doesn't mean it doesn't throw him on high alert the entire day.

He sits rigid on the table while Ziegler goes about prepping things and making idle chatter he hardly responds to.

She snaps her gloves on. “So! Any horrible, highly contagious diseases I should know about before we begin?”

“...excuse me?”

“Are you going to drop dead at any moment? Because while I do have the means to reverse that, I'd like to at least be prepared.”

“I – no. I'm fine. No immediate death planned.” _I've already done that once, thanks._

She laughs, a thing full and bright. “I'm joking! At _ease_ , Soldier. You just looked so tense, I had to do something.”

He coughs. “Right.”

“Well, you look healthy enough. Still sturdy as a racehorse, even at your age. And while your blood pressure is higher than I'd like, I'm going to chalk it up to _extreme tension_ until we examine you again.” The sensors attached to his arms beep in alarm, no doubt at the rapidity of his pulse. “Not a fan of doctors, I see.”

She moves very close to him then, fingertips at the edges of the mask below his visor. “I'd like to check your vision and other basic functions, but this needs to come off.”

There's very little detail in what the visor shows him, so he can only assume her gaze is searching.

“I'd really rather not -”

Like a blessing, both of their comms go off, the deep voice on the other end the best thing he's heard in his life.

“Winston here. Send Soldier: 76 down here, it's urgent.”

Jack hops off the table, pulling the sensors off as he goes. “Duty calls?”

“Mm. Go. I'd like a complete health report _eventually_ , Soldier.”

He feels her eyes on his back the whole way out.

 

* * *

 

“We've got an update on the mystery data hacker, guys. Last seen in Dorado, accompanied by three known Talon agents. This whole thing is looking worse and worse by the second.”

Shimada, who Jack has since learned from listening to Tracer has the first name of Hanzo, narrows his eyes. “So Talon is looking to stop Overwatch from reemerging before it gains enough power to take them down?”

“Possibly. We don't know what they want. That's where you three come in, remember? This guy is...not exactly going with Talon plans as of late. Kind of a loose cannon.”

“And yer askin' us to waltz in there and ask him what his plans are f'r the rest of the week? Take him out t' dinner, maybe?” McCree chews on the end of his cigarette. “Color me stupid, but I don't know what you want here, pal.”

Winston rubs his temples. Jack feels his pain. “No, Jesse, that's not what I'm saying. I'm saying do some recon, follow the trail. Maybe there's some answers laying around.”

Hanzo nods. “I am not looking forward to potentially going toe-to-toe with this creature, but if it aids us in dismantling an opponent...”

Winston exhales. “Exactly. 76, I've seen you on the field, that's why we made contact. Form a strategy and get out there. You two, follow him. I know you've both got good instincts, but I'm not losing anyone.”

Jack feels a gnawing pain in the base of his skull.

_Follow him. Morrison won't lose a man._

 

* * *

 

Dorado is just as hot and sticky as he remembers, even in the dead of night. McCree sits in their temporary hideout fanning himself with his hat, leaning back with a leg crossed over the other.

“Lucky you, Shimada. Sittin' there half-dressed like ya are. Least you're not broiling.”

Hanzo says nothing, but impatiently fiddles with an arrow. Something in Jack wants to see the elder Shimada brother lose his cool, just once. What it would take to break his calm.

_How much can a man bear before he breaks, Commander?_

He shakes off a shiver.

“Boys, please.”

Hanzo slips half a smirk onto his face. Better.

The sound of distant gunfire draws them all out of their idleness. McCree is the first to settle his haunches, but remains on alert.

“Y'all don't know what that is. Gangs are all over the damn place here. Painting their faces with skulls an' all.”

“Yes, but you don't know that definitively. It's highly likely our ghostly friend and Talon are still here.” Hanzo still has an arrow nocked, every muscle fiber ready to pounce.

“He's right. Shimada, find higher ground, take out hostiles while scanning the area. But if it gets too hot out there, _you come back._ ” Hanzo nods and flits out of sight. “McCree, you're with me. If it's just a gang, we take them out, simple. If it's not...we'll play it by ear.”

McCree mumbles something about being stuck with the chaperone on a field trip and follows Jack out of the relative safety of their hideout.

 

Not two minutes later, Hanzo comms him in a rushed whisper. “It is...it's getting a bit _hot_ out here. You need to see this.”

The soldier scans roofs and archways for any sign of where Hanzo could be in the darkness. And it is very, _very_ dark. Darker than a decently-lit semi-residential street should be, if his visor readouts are to be trusted.

It's when he loses reference of where McCree should be that panic sets in.

 

A distorted, scratching growl of a voice that sounds like it's being choked by smoke is fast and hot in his ear.

_**"Oh, Morrison. Little Jack. How fast we forget, eh hermoso?"** _

 

The last thing he remembers is hot, dark smoke trailing over his body and a complete and utter _silence_.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tracer here!
> 
> Oh how I love the blind!76 headcanon, let me count the ways. Let me know if that wasn't terribly clear, I didn't want to be like BY THE WAY JACK IS BLIND HE CAN'T SEE but still make it so that it's a thing. /shrug
> 
> Also, while not necessarily part of this chapter, I feel like 76 and Hanzo would be friendly. Old dudes with some heavy shit to deal with and big, heavy hearts. Maybe I'll expand on that.
> 
> Also! find me on tumblr at elficoprincipe.tumblr.com and on PSN as amoryblainest if ya wanna play the overwatches with me


End file.
